


here, there (and everywhere)

by blake0tyler



Category: Booksmart (2019)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blake0tyler/pseuds/blake0tyler
Summary: All you care about is photography, and books with multi-dimensional female characters, and getting out of your parents’ claws and away from this place as quickly as you possibly can.You don’t care about the way these idiots at school look at you.You don’t care about the college brochures Ms. Fine keeps putting on your desk.And you certainly don’t care about nerdy girls with off taste in clothing and too much sexual inexperience.(Not yet, anyway)//Hope and Amy, senior year, and after.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: 
> 
> Yes, I have other fics to work on, but I watched the movie and could not stop myself. This basically wrote itself. 
> 
> (TW for brief mention of rape. It is in the context of Greek mythology, but still worth mentioning.)

All you care about is photography, and books with multi-dimensional female characters, and getting out of your parents’ claws and away from this place as quickly as you possibly can.

You don’t care about the way these idiots at school look at you. 

You don’t care about the college brochures Ms. Fine keeps putting on your desk.

And you certainly don’t care about nerdy girls with off taste in clothing and too much sexual inexperience.

(Not yet, anyway)

:::

You begin saving money at the beginning of senior year. 

The movie theater doesn’t pay much, but something about this whole idea needs to be your _own_.

See, nothing in your life has ever really belonged to you. Not the expensive house you live in, with its stained glass windows and gate all around. Not the college fund that has been in existence since the day you were born. Not your piano lessons or your nail polish, not even any of the trophies on the mantelpiece—the ones you got for horseback riding when you were younger—even if they’ve got your name on them. 

You need to save money because you want things for yourself; cool jackets from vintage stores, old analog cameras. To go to places you have never been before, to see things that are vastly different from your life as it is now.

So, one Friday night, you decide to drive your dad’s old mustang to the art house movie theater, and ask for a job. Any job. 

After a lot of frowning, you get to sell tickets—that’s it.

You sell tickets and you fake-smile at people when they walk in and you watch a lot of foreign films from the back of the theater.

You begin to make a tiny lit bit of money that belongs to you and no one else.

:::

In English, Amy happens to sit in the seat that is diagonally in front of yours—and so, for one hour every single morning, five days a week, you happen to end up staring at her profile for the majority of the class.

It’s not intentional, of course.

You couldn’t care less about any of these people.

High school is an unimaginative hell you are stuck in on a daily basis, with unimaginative teachers teaching unimaginative subjects to a bunch of unimaginative teenagers. And just because English is maybe the only class that is half okay, and just because Amy turns out to actually be really smart—smarter than most people, for sure—doesn’t mean that this hour is any better than the rest.

It’s a passive observation, that’s all.

You’ve got nothing better to do, and so you look.

:::

The first time she directly speaks to you, it’s Molly’s fault.

Well, that, and the fact you can’t keep your damn mouth shut when it’s about something like this.

You’re sitting in the corner of the library, leafing through an Audre Lorde collection that Ms. Fine pushed into your hands at the end of this morning’s class, with a roll of her eyes and a snappish “If you’re going to spend each of my classes passive-aggressively sighing about being too smart for any of us, you might as well put that intellect to good use, Hope.”

It felt a little bit like a slap in your face, but you didn’t say anything, just gave her one of your best fake smiles and threw the book in your bag without a second glance—because she’s wrong. 

You don’t think you’re too smart.

You just wished you’d feel like school was actually getting you somewhere

(Which, maybe, Ms. Fine knows. Which, maybe, is why she gave you the book in the first place, and why you’re making your way through it now, feeling like your heart is in your throat as you read the paragraphs, feeling like maybe there is something out there that is interesting after all, that is alive and burning and making you think your _own_ thoughts rather than anything your dad tries to—)

“She was a _monster_ , Amy.”

Loud whispers cut through the silence.

“That’s seems a little—”

“You think Athena gave her a head of snakes just for fun? Do you think Perseus cut it off of her bloody, dying torso just for fun? All those snakes splashing open on the hot Greek earth, poison and blood everywhere, Medusa’s sinew system torn to shreds—”

“Nice and graphic, Molly.” 

“I’m just saying, she was a monster. She got what she deserved.”

“Yeah, but was she, though? I mean, what if she was just misunderstood.”

Molly gasps, completely affronted by this idea. They’re sitting a few tables over. You were so into your book that you didn’t notice. But here they are, Amy and Molly, with thick dictionaries and notes spread out all over the table in front of them.

“She turned people to stone!” Molly says. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “She murdered innocent people just with her eyes, Amy! What part of that—”

“She was raped,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “Medusa. For your information. She was raped.”

Both of them fall silent.

You arch your eyebrow at Molly. “If you’re going to tell the story, you should tell the whole thing.”

Molly opens her mouth, closes it again.

You’re about to turn your attention back to Audre Lorde, but then Amy says, “What’s the whole story?”

Your eyes catch hers and for a second something clenches a little tightly in your chest, because Molly might have her whole body locked in defense, but Amy seems like she is never scared to ask questions. Seems like she doesn’t mind setting her pride aside in favor of her curiosity. 

(Also, she’s got her hair pushed up in this messy bun and it draws all of your attention to her eyes and her jaw, and she has never said anything directly to you, and it’s different to hear her voice aimed at you, and—)

“She was beautiful,” you say. “Before she was a monster. She was one of the most beautiful girls in Greece, and she prayed to Athena every single day. But if you’re beautiful and a woman, men will think you belong to them. So Poseidon found her in Athena’s temple and he raped her, right there on the altar, and then, Athena found herself in a bit of a situation. According to the other gods, Medusa was the one who had defiled Athena’s temple, not Poseidon. And so, Athena had to act decisively, and not look weak in front of the rest of Olympus. So she punished her. Gave Medusa a head full of snakes. Made her a monster. Whatever you want to call it.” You pause for a second, flicking your eyes up to look at both of them. “Or maybe… Maybe she gave her head full of snakes so that no other man would ever harm her again. Maybe it was protection. A gift. The ability to kill anyone who would ever get close to her again. And sure, she did. She did kill those people. But maybe what we think of as monstrous, is the real problem here.”

There’s a silence.

Molly’s frowning, glancing down at her translation notes again, as if she’s missed something important. But Amy’s biting down on her bottom lip, and looking at you in a weird sort of way that suddenly makes your skin feel hot all over.

Before the blood makes it all the way up your cheeks, you push the book in your backpack and get up. “Anyway, have fun studying dead languages, nerds.”

You make your way to the door of the library, but not quick enough to keep yourself from hearing Molly say, “God, she’s so intense.”

(Not quick enough to keep yourself from hearing Amy’s shaky inhale and this soft, clenched way she mumbles _woah_ , and nothing else.)

::: 

Right before the Christmas holidays, the title of Amy’s individual presentation is “Feminism in Mythology”, and she stands in front of the class, back straight as she shakily and hesitantly brings Madeline Miller’s _Circe_ and _The Song of Achilles_ into the discussion. You think you hate her a little bit. 

You hate her, because first of all, that was _your_ thing.

You hate her, because she’s telling you things you didn’t know yet.

You hate her, because it’s actually interesting and imaginative, and different from the usual discussions. 

(She’s also wearing this white button up shirt that shows off the column of her throat and she tends to swallow a lot when she’s nervous. You’re not supposed to notice any of this.)

At the end of her presentation, she gives you this tiny smile, and you purposely stare back without any sort of recognition, deciding right there and then: you really need to leave this city as soon as possible. 

:::

During Christmas break, the movie theater is emptier than usual. It’s during these hours—the ones that regular people are spending with their family—that your idea really begins to take shape.

Maybe it’s all the subtitled films that are making you imagine living somewhere else for a while. Maybe it’s the long camera shots that are making you imagine what it would be like to just pack your things and go. Maybe, if money weren’t an issue, you’d be able to leave right after graduation.

But money _is_ an issue—it always has been in your life—and you’re clearly not going to make enough of it here.

And then, Annabelle, of all people, gives you an idea for a way out.

She shows up one late night in the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and she’s alone.

There’s a re-run of _Call Me By Your Name_ on for the last shift of the day, and you’re so surprised to see her that you can’t speak for a second.

“What?” she says. “Ms. Fine is making me read this book for my presentation next week, but I’m more of a movie kind of girl. Besides, that guy with the black hair is really hot.” When you don’t say anything, she rolls her eyes and adds, “Come on, Hope, it is literally your job to sell me a ticket. Just get it over with and we can go back to ignoring each other.”

There are only three other people in the cinema.

She doesn’t even look all that surprised when you hesitantly take the seat next to her in the back row after you’ve started the movie.

“Have you seen it before?” she asks.

“Four times,” you admit.

Annabelle grins. “Could have known. This is the gayest thing since _Carol_.”

You can feel yourself blush a little, but letting yourself be teased about your sexuality by someone whose nickname is “Triple A” is beneath you, so you stay silent. Turns out, Annabelle is not the worst person to watch movies with. She seems to forget any sort of pretense she usually keeps up during school hours, and almost physically responds to the way the story plays out, all wide eyes and genuine smiles and shaky breathing. 

After, you sit on the curb outside of the movie theater and talk about your favorite scenes.

Annabelle is saying how she could almost feel the heat of the summer dripping off the screen, and then, before you can stop yourself, you find yourself saying, “I would love to travel through Italy.”

She arches her brow. “Why don’t you?”

You shrug. “Money.”

“ _Money_?” She laughs. “Doesn’t your family bask in money?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not mine.”

Annabelle eyes you. “I bet there’s a shining college fund out there somewhere that has had your name on it since birth, though.” She takes a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her coat. “If I were you, it wouldn’t even be a question. I’d empty that account the day after graduation and take the next flight to wherever.”

“Sure—that’d be my parents exact idea of how to waste my education.”

“You don’t get it,” Annabelle says, dragging her cigarette. “Who cares what they think? That trip would _be_ an education. But fine—” She blows some of the smoke in your direction. “Cleary you’re not as much of a badass as you wish us all to believe.” 

You narrow your eyes at her, then decide to turn it around. “And clearly _you’re_ not as cool as you wish us all to believe. Watching art house movies alone during Christmas break.”

She grins. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

:::

It’s not exactly friendship, this thing between you and Annabelle, but at least it’s something.

Someone from school that makes your life a bit more interesting. You debate her in English class whenever she says something factually inaccurate about the feminist literature movement again. She flips you off, but begins to invite you along to parties. Sometimes, you hang out with some of her friends. Sometimes, you smoke together on the steps leading up to the main entrance.

You call each other out on your bullshit. 

Like, Annabelle telling you to get a grip and start being serious about your plan to see the world.

Like, you telling Annabelle to just apply for Yale, already.

But then, she tells you to stop crushing on Amy.

:::

“It’s not a crush.”

“Please,” Annabelle says. “You are staring at the back of her head like you can’t wait to have it between your legs.”

“ _The back of her—_ ” you sputter. “First of all, that doesn’t make sense. Second of all, I’m not staring at her.”

Annabelle is unfazed. “And whenever you’re not staring, you’re always saying these weird pseudo-intellectual things to try and get her attention, like some kind of lesbian mating ritual that no one else should be forced to endure during regular school hours. Like, _Amy, did you know this one dead person who no one cares about wrote this one poem that also no one cares about_?” You frown hard at her. “Or even worse, last week when you went all, _Amy, did you know Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West were in lesbian love with each other? And would you maybe want to start a similar epistolary affair during your summer in Botswana because my gay heart can’t cope with you leaving—_ ”

You try to throw your novel against Annabelle’s head. “Fuck off. I hate you so much. Also, there’s no need to point out someone’s sexuality at every chance you get.”

“There is if they’re a fucking walking pride flag upholding every single lesbian high school cliché.”

“You seem to know a lot about that.”

Annabelle grins. “Don’t worry, you’re not my type.” 

“Did I mention I hate you?” 

“I’m just saying,” she says, giving you the brightest smile. “You might want to do something about your feelings. You know, before Ryan takes off with the love of your life.” 

:::

To be fair, Annabelle has a point.

Not about the crush—obviously.

But the longer the semester lasts, the more annoying it becomes to watch Amy stumble all over herself trying to impress Ryan.

Ryan, with her stupid skateboard and her stupid glasses.

Ryan, who has been so clearly into Nick since the very first day of high school.

Ryan, who frankly, should _not_ be Amy’s type at all—not that you care what her type is.

God. It bothers you. Not because you’re jealous, obviously, but because it’s painful to watch Amy’s inept flirting skills. And because Amy’s little crush on Ryan has turned Molly into an even more horrible version of herself, blatantly commenting on Amy’s love life for the whole fucking school to hear.

You start working all the shifts at the movie theater you can get.

You can’t wait to get out of here.

:::

On the last day of school, Amy _somehow_ manages to get Ms. Fine’s phone number, and _goddamnit_ , if it doesn’t shake you up a little.

It’s just—it’s like she doesn’t even have to try. She just seems to be able to do everything. Go to Botswana on her own, maintain a perfect GPA, be the only person who actually looks _good_ in an ugly beige sweater with a patched up denim jacket over it.

It’s infuriating.

And still—

“Hey, Amy.”

She turns around. “Yeah?”

“Did you just score your teacher’s phone number?”

At that, she sort of grins—this smug little smile that makes your chest go tight, that makes you want to push, against _something_.

(—push her back against a wall, maybe, and kiss her breathless, make her grin like that because she’s got your phone number instead of Ms. Fine’s, make her… _fuck_ , whatever, you _don’t_ have a crush.)

“ _Nice_.” You force yourself to sound as sarcastic as you possibly can, before slumping back into your chair and throwing her an angry glare, anything to get that smile off her face.

Soon, you’re out of this place.

Amy can flirt with Ryan as much as she wants, can flirt with Ms. Fine, too, for all you care.

She can have dozens of girls’ phone numbers in her phone. It’s none of your business.

Soon, you will be out of the country and you will forget about her, easy as that.

:::

The party is messy and lame.

Beer cups everywhere, the music too loud. Nick and Theo and all these other losers trying to show off. The whole damn karaoke thing.

You can’t find Annabelle anywhere and so, you end up in the bathroom, slightly tipsy and wanting to be alone, thinking for a fleeting second about the fact that today was really the very last day, and that you’re really never going back to school again.

It makes you feel a little unsteady, so you light a cigarette to try and smoke yourself a little calmer. You don’t even really like smoking, but whatever.

It helps, a little bit.

But then, Amy walks in—her dress all wet, breathing hard and with tears in her eyes—and your brain short-circuits instantly. “What the fuck.”

Of course she’s here right now. _Of course._

You gesture at the door. “I locked that.”

For a second, she seems thrown back by the fact that you’re here. Then, she presses her hands against the sink, annoyance charging through her. “Well, I guess you didn’t.”

She’s shaking, you notice. Trembling and angry, and you feel like you shouldn’t care, feel like you need to get yourself out of this bathroom as quickly as possible, but your body seems to disagree. “What’s wrong with you?” you press. “Fight with your wife?”

It’s meant to make her turn around, but Amy doesn’t even really acknowledge you. “Can you please just leave me alone?”

It pisses you off. The fact that she’s here. The fact that she’s not giving in to your questions. The fact that you still haven’t left this bathroom already.

(That someone made her cry, and that she’s not looking at you, and that you should have known she doesn’t like you, not even a little bit, should have known this whole year of sitting behind her English was stupid, was useless, was—)

“Why are you even at a party?” you say. “Shouldn’t you be marching in some meaningless protest somewhere, or, I don’t know, in your bed doing homework?”

“You don’t even know me.” 

You flick the ash off your cigarette. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

You’re trying to say it lightly, with a bit of a shrug, trying not to think of a year’s worth of passive observation during English class. Or, maybe, intentional observation.

But Amy snaps, “No!” And then she’s turning her head. “You’re just one of those people who claims they’re honest or calling people on their shit when you’re really just mean.”

And _that_ is what you were pressing against.

To see her break a little bit.

Because today was the last day, and you’re not—

You’re never—

“Wow,” you say, sighing and leaning forward. “I take it back. You are a badass.” You get up, walk towards the mirror, get right up into her space. “Who takes no prisoners.” Her eyes lock into yours. “And cries in the bathroom at parties.”

She’s looking at you now, close and like she could snap any moment. You take a step back, lean against the wall, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing.

“Why are you so cruel?” Amy says.

You shrug. “I just don’t like meek people.” It’s a half-truth. It’s a half-truth, because it is the truth, but Amy is not… She’s not— “And you…” You force yourself to press harder, because she’s still, she’s still driving you crazy, all questions and not caring that her hair is wet, and you just need to see how far it can go. “You’re just Molly’s little sidekick bitch.”

Amy steps forward. “And you’re just a basic hot girl who’s going to peak in high school.”

It cuts your breath short. The way she snaps at you, the way she steps up into your space, pushing you right back, see how far it can go, too.

(The way she said _hot_ , how it courses through your whole body like a wave.)

There’s a moment where there’s nothing between you except your breathing, and then Amy kisses you.

It’s clumsy and abrupt.

Just a two-second thing, and then it breaks already, and you’re pulling back, all of your act crumbling instantly, because _holy fuck okay._

You laugh a little, lick the inside of your lip, drop your gaze down to Amy’s mouth—

—and then you’re kissing again, a little rough, a little uncoordinated. Amy’s pulling on your jacket, pushing it off your shoulders, opening her mouth under yours, and _fuck,_ she’s clearly not kissed many people, but it makes your whole body tremble, the way she doesn’t seem to care about how messy it is.

It thrills through you from low in your stomach all the way up your chest.

Amy’s breath hitches in her throat when your hand falls to her hip, and you press a little harder. She strokes her fingers against your neck, and it makes your skin burn. The kiss is all over the place and you wish you weren’t so into it, but it’s setting you completely on fire.

Her hand finds yours and she laces your fingers together, clearly not knowing where else to put them, and your whole body melts into it. 

She keeps kissing you.

She keeps licking into your mouth like she’s wanted it for way longer than just now—and you…

(You were ready to leave, but maybe not just yet.)

:::

Amy has never done this.

It’s so, so clear.

From accidentally knocking a little too hard into your body, to the clumsy way she drags you down to the bathroom floor, just _closer closer closer_.

Still, she pulls your shirt up over your head and it makes you shy. Makes you bite down on your bottom lip, trying not to smile too hard, trying not to let her see what this is doing to you.

The cold hair hits your skin and you shiver.

(Or maybe it’s the quick way she glances down at your boobs, how her blush rises on her cheeks, how she’s kissing you again, shifting forward, all lips and trembling hands.)

It’s eager and fast, and you’re really, _really_ into it.

But then Amy breaks apart.

“Are you okay?”

You’re instantly worried.

“Yeah, sorry.” She sounds breathless. “Just got a little dizzy for a second there.”

It’s so soft, so _soft._ “We can stop if you want.”

“No,” Amy says, quick and rushed. A little bit of confidence seems to flow back into her body. “We are _not_ stopping…”

“Okay.”

She thumbs at your zipper, almost accidentally, and you lean back on the cold tiles, flicking at the button and pulling your jeans down the top of your thighs.

Amy laughs, a little nervously, as she undoes the laces of your _Converse_. She’s trying to look like she knows what she’s doing, trying to be smooth, but you can see she’s freaking out a little bit, and it makes you—

It makes you want to pull her back on top of you again and flip her over so you can get your hands under that dress, already. So you can make her feel _good_. Show her that you _do_ know how to do this. How fucking into her you are. Touch her well and make her whimper, and go down on her like you’ve wanted for half a year already. 

But you’re on your back and this pretty girl in front of you is being brave, so you let her take the lead.

And yes, it’s a little awkward, but your heart is beating so fast and your skin feels hot and all she needs to do is run a finger over you to make you shiver—and you know, you _know_ you’re wet, that _she_ ’s doing that to you, and it’s making you feel like it’s your first time all over again, only better, because this time you actually care. 

She gets your jeans off and tumbles back, and it makes you giggle a little, saying, “Are you okay?”

Because this is how life is.

This is what you wanted.

Something real.

And then, Amy is sliding your panties down your legs and it feels _really_ real for a second—all open and exposed and vulnerable. Like maybe you weren’t as cool as you thought you were. Like maybe you too are eighteen and feeling overwhelmed.

There’s a wave of tension through your body, and you pull your hand up to run it through your hair, but Amy is looking at you like she can’t quite believe what is happening, like you _are_ hot—and it’s making you feel better, making you laugh, a little breathlessly.

“I should…” She falters for a second. “Uh – probably take mine off, too.”

_Fuck_ , you want to kiss her again. “Yeah.”

She moves, slides her underwear down her legs, with not nearly as much ease as when she took off yours, but then her hands are reaching for the hem of her dress, and you’re—

You’re just staring at how gorgeous she is—

“It’s a nice dress.”

“It was all she had,” Amy says, pulling it up over her head, nearly naked now. At your questioning eyes, she grins, all smug confidence all of a sudden. “Ms. Fine.”

You laugh, head falling back. “Oh my god, of course.”

She’s going to kill you, you think.

She’s going to kill you with how cute and hot and attractive she is, laughing at herself and leaning over your body, shifting closer. Her hands are on your thighs and there is so much of her skin visible now—and then, she’s sliding up your body, and you feel like you’re going to explode right out of your skin, and she leans down as you lean up, and then you’re kissing again.

Hot and quick and with urgency now.

She’s pressing against you, licking at your bottom lip, while her hand moves down between your bodies.

You’ve thought about this.

You’ve thought about this, but not like _this_. Not with Amy on top of you, her skin still wet with chlorine, making you tremble, choke on your breath as she runs her fingers through you, feels how slick you are against her finger tips.

You’re on a bathroom floor at a party, on the last day of school, and she’s touching you—

Pushing slightly harder—

_Oh._

You grimace a little, outside of your control.

Amy flinches. “How is – how is that for you?”

Fuck…

You swallow hard, don’t want to freak her out. “It’s okay.”

“Is there like…” Amy stumbles over the words. “Like, another way that you prefer, or like…”

“I just—” She’s looking at you so nervously, and it makes your heart clench. “Um.” You bring your hand up, to touch her skin for a second. “I… I don’t think that’s the hole you think it is.”

“Oh my god—” Of course, she freaks out instantly, moving away. “Oh my _god_.”

“It’s okay,” you rush to say.

“I’m so sorry!”

“No, it’s okay.”

Amy is backing away, waving her hands. “Oh my god – I’m just— I’m not used to approaching it from that angle, and my geometry was off.”

_God_. She’s going to kill you. You smile, despite yourself. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

Amy reaches over, grabs one of the cups that is balancing on the edge of the bathtub—the one you’d been flicking the ash of your cigarette in, you realize too late, just as she says “I’m sorry” again, taking a gulp from the cup.

You wince.

Amy’s face changes instantly

“Are you… are you good?”

That’s when she throws up.

That’s when you remember that you hate this city, hate this party, hate this place.

That’s when you freak out and scream and tell her to leave, and she does.

:::

You pick up Amy’s underwear from the floor, and Amy gets arrested.

It’s the last day of school, and your night did _not_ go as planned. 

:::

You’ve never gone over to a girl’s house before.

In an attempt to play it cool, you lean against the wall, while you wait for Amy’s dad to go get his daughter. Still, you’re not ready for the moment that Amy comes walking out—shy smile an outfit that is shockingly unfashionable, even for her. Your heart begins to race.

“Hey,” Amy says.

“Hey.” You hand her the plastic bag. “I figured I’d bring back your clothes.” 

The truth is, you’d been over the incident almost as soon as you stepped into the shower. You can handle a little embarrassment.

Besides, before any of that, you’d been on your back on a cold bathroom floor, completely vulnerable and _ready_ —ready to have sex with her, ready to let this girl you’ve been into for about half a year unravel you completely.

So maybe it’s time you put your pride aside for a while.

“Oh,” Amy says, taking the bag from you. “Thanks so much – I don’t… I don’t usually leave my underwear in places that are – that aren’t my room.”

She’s nervous and _cute_ and damn it. It makes you smile. “Yeah, I figured.”

“So—” Her face gets serious, and she swallows. Nervous. Like in her English presentations, but more worried. And _cuter—_ damn it. “How… are—are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You shrug, playing it off like it’s nothing. But you can’t help but add, a little teasingly, “Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah,” Amy breathes out, avoiding direct eye contact, before adding sort of awkwardly and smooth a the same time, “You know, prison kind of changes you.” You hum and Amy smiles, the corners of her mouth turning up as she looks back at you. “But I’m fine.” She lets out a breathy laugh. “Sorry, I – I really don’t know what I’m doing with all that stuff yet.”

She should feel how fast your heart is beating.

“Well,” you say, before you can stop yourself, feeling a weird mix of shy and confident at the same time. “For someone who has no idea what they’re doing… you kind of know what you’re doing.”

The words hang in the air between you, and you glance at her, trying to see if she’s hearing it, trying to see if she’s getting what you’re saying, that you’re _here_ for a reason, that you’ve been staring at the back of her head in English for a full year already, that she—

(That she turned you on _so much_ , regardless of experience. That you’re breaking all of your own rules for her.)

“That’s – uh.” Amy laughs nervously. “ _Argh_ —that’s—” She’s blushing now, kind of choking on her words, making you laugh. “—Cool.” She’s fumbling with the bag in her hands, clearly trying to play it off. “So, how’s – how’s your summer going?” 

You frown.

“I mean – what are, what are you doing for the summertime?”

God, all of this awkward flirting is making your head spin. You smile. “I think I’m going to backpack around for a bit.”

“Really?” Amy says.

“Yeah,” you grin.

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” you tell her, feeling happy and light. “Honestly, anywhere I can find a couch to crash on. I just – you know, I want to see some stuff before college.”

It feels good to admit it. To admit what you want for yourself. Especially when Amy says, “That’s – that’s really cool. Me too. That’s why I’m taking a gap year.”

“Yeah?”

There is something in the space between the two of you as she says it, some sort of wide open promise. You reach into the pocket of your jacket and take out the piece of paper with your number on it. Amy stares at it, hesitates for a second, confused. You flick your wrist and she takes it, looking at you like she did when you got naked in front of her—like she can’t quite believe that this is really happening.

It makes your chest feel so tight with feelings that you force yourself to turn and walk away now, before you make an even bigger idiot of yourself.

“If you ever end up in Botswana,” Amy calls after you. “You’d have a couch to crash on.”

It makes you smile, and also blush a little. “Okay.”

“Well, technically it won’t be my couch! ‘Cause I’ll be staying with a family, but I’m sure they’ll be cool with it.”

She’s going to be the death of you.

:::

She texts you the day she leaves. She texts you, _Hi._ Followed by, _This is Amy_. Followed by, _Send me pictures from your trip!_ Followed by _Only if you want to_.

And then, _Here’s me at the airport_.

It’s a picture of herself, hanging in some lounge chair, her face lit up by bad late night terminal lighting. She’s looking a little self-conscious, a little shy. But she’s also looking directly into the camera, like she wants to be brave, and she’s texting you a selfie as if this is just something you two do now.

It makes your heart race impossibly fast.

You text back, _pretty_ , because she is—and you can almost picture her, smiling down at her phone as she reads the message.

God.

Maybe you should find a way to get yourself to Southern Africa.

**//**


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Somehow this became a Hope character study? idk.

First, there is Iceland.

This is the plan.

Your parents think you’re leaving to go on a summer school program at NYU, but instead, you collect all of the money you made at the art house cinema and you take your duffel bag right to the bank to empty that account that was waiting for you in your name. It really might be the most badass thing you’ve ever done. By the time they find out, you will already be out of the country.

There’s a flight to Amsterdam that allows you to stop-over in Iceland for two weeks, and it’s as good a place to start as any. 

Annabelle drives you to the airport.

“One thing,” she says, pulling up in front of the terminal. “Please don’t come back with your hair all long and wild, wearing sandals and holding hands with your wife, and carrying a bunch of babies you’ve adopted.”

You frown. “Slightly offensive.”

“I’m just saying,” she grins. “You think you can act all tough and cool with your whole ‘I’m fleeing to Europe’ thing, but we both know that this is really about banging Amy.” Her smile curls even wider. “Well, that is, _if_ you can get to the banging this time.”

You wish you could push her out of her own driving vehicle. You never should have told her about the whole thing with Amy. “Remind me again why we’re friends.”

“You scared off everyone else at school and I was your only option left.”

That makes you laugh. “Pretty accurate.”

She gets out of the car, walks around. “For real, though,” she says. “Don’t make this about a girl. There’s a lot to see out there.”

You nod. “I know, I know.”

Annabelle grins. “But tell Amy hi from me.”

You wrap your arms around her, just for a second. Just to keep it quick and brush it off, because you don’t really hug people, and you don’t really care. But Annabelle holds on a second longer, presses a kiss to your cheek. “Keep your gay ass safe.”

“Keep your hands to yourself at college.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “No promises.”

With a wave out of the window, she drives off.

You make your way into the terminal, and then all of a sudden you’re alone.

It sends a thrill of excitement through your body; there are so many people, and none of them know you, and it’s like you’re disappearing already, like you could go wherever you wanted and no one would even notice.

No one would even—

Suddenly, there’s a shift and then the thrill changes to slight panic. You’re all alone. None of these people know you and it’s like you’re disappearing already.

You wonder if Amy felt like this.

After a second of not really knowing where to go or what to do from here, you pull your phone out of your pocket. You send her a shot of your bag and your boots and your cup of coffee, along with the text that says _here’s to hoping I don’t fall out of the plane and die._

You’re trying to be funny. You don’t even know if she’ll text back. She sent you a message the other day saying she doesn’t always have Wi-Fi, and you haven’t really talked since then.

But then your phone buzzes.

_Are you nervous?_

You want to lie.

You stare at your phone.

But then, before you can really talk yourself out of it, you’re _nah it’s nothing im just feeling a little bit panicked_. You send it off and then quickly add _but its cool_ because you don’t want to look like a loser.

There’s no reply.

You stare at your phone, biting down on your bottom lip, looking around and trying to figure out what’s next, where to go. You lean back against a wall, trying to get out of the crowd for a second.

And then your phone rings.

Your throat goes dry and your hands get clammy and it’s Amy’s name flashing on your screen, just _Amy Amy Amy_ over and over, until you somehow manage to slide your thumb over your phone and bring it up to your ear.

“H—” There’s no sound coming out of your throat. You cough. “Hi.”

“ _Hey_.”

You feel like your heart is going to drop through your stomach. “Hey – hi. Amy, hi.”

Instantly, you curse yourself for being such an idiot, saying hi to her three times in about 0,48 seconds.

You blurt out, “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d—” right as Amy says, “ _Sorry, I thought you wouldn’t—_ ”

Then both of you are silent at the same time, and after a second, you laugh, because you’re both idiots, actually.

And then Amy says, “ _I didn’t really think this through_.”

And then you manage to, somehow, say, “It’s good to hear your voice.”

Which is kind of accidentally flirty and makes your cheeks go red—thank god she can’t see you—and Amy answers with a breathless “ _Yeah?_ ” that makes you smile. And then she says, “ _Why are you feeling so panicked?_ ”

Right.

The shock of speaking to Amy on the phone gives way, and then you’re back in the deeper feeling of stress that you were trying so desperately to hold off. 

“It’s just—” You don’t really know how to say it. “There’s so many people here and I don’t know exactly where I’m going and I— well, I took my parents’ money and ran with it, and they’re going to think I’m off to New York when I’m actually— well—”

“ _Hey_ ,” Amy says, cutting through your rambling. “ _Just – I know there are a lot of people and I know it’s stressful, okay? But you’re going to be fine. I’m right here. Take a breath._ ”

You slide down against the wall to the floor. “Okay, yeah I’m— I’m sorry, you must think I’m so lame.”

She’s silent for this half second and then she says, sort of soft, “ _I actually think you’re the opposite of lame._ ”

It’s not really smooth, but there’s a swoop in your stomach, anyway. You take a deep breath, then another. “How’s Botswana?”

That sort of does the trick.

She tells you everything. About the annoying couple sitting next to her on her flight there, who were halfway through a divorce and still had to go on safari with each other for an entire month. About her host family; Lerato and Baruti, who have their own little supermarket store and try to teach Amy as many words in Tswana as they can. All her little host brothers—Kopano who plays soccer with her, and Tebogo who always laughs at the way Amy keeps getting words wrong, and Tau, whose name means lion, and who loves to just climb up on Amy’s lap whenever he gets a chance. And then, the little baby girl, Kagiso, who Amy gets to look after sometimes. She talks about the project—all the women she’s talking to every day, the places she gets to see.

With every sentence, she gets more confident, telling you her opinions.

You notice that her voice gets louder when she speaks about the inequality she sees every day, and softer when she speaks about the family traditions that she gets to be a part of, and it helps.

You’re calming down.

You’re getting excited again.

(You wish you could see the way her eyes light up when she says all of these things.)

“ _Oh, shit—”_ Amy cuts through your thoughts suddenly. “ _Uh – I just checked the time, and – well – it’s been almost twenty minutes already, and I… I kind of only have a very limited phone plan._ ”

That makes you smile. “And you’re wasting it on some girl on the other side of the world.”

Amy is silent for a second, then she says, “ _Not just — not just some girl_.”

It makes you bite down on your lip. You want to say so many things.

(Things like _I think you’re amazing_ and _your voice is doing something to me_ and _don’t hang up yet_.)

Instead, you say, “Thanks for talking me down.”

“ _Sure._ ” It’s almost like you can see Amy smile. “ _Just get on the plane and everything will be better once you land._ ”

“Promise?”

It feels small to ask.

But Amy says, “ _Promise_.”

You smile a little wider.

:::

All of your panic disappears when you land in Iceland.

You get yourself an Airbnb in the city center of Reykjavik; this tiny apartment on the top floor of a white building with a sky blue roof that doesn’t have much besides a bed and a kitchen block. But you didn’t come here for luxury, you came to get away from it—from your parents shiny diamonds and their spotless floors—and so you make tea on the stove and climb up onto the window sill and just watch the city for hours and hours.

This is why you have your camera.

You shoot pictures until you’re tired and you listen to Bruno Major and softer Florence and the Machine songs, and you feel nostalgic for no reason at all. You curl up on the bed and fall asleep with the windows still wide open. In the morning, you’ve got mosquito bites all over your arms and no food in the house, but you laugh and take a shower, pull your hair up, make your way down to the streets, and disappear.

No one knows you, and Iceland is beautiful.

:::

You get on a bus and go _everywhere_. The black sand beaches of Vik. The Migandi waterfall. The ice caves under Katla Volcano—which make you lose your breath.

One of the tour guides offers to take a picture of you and you let him, for once not minding being the person in front of the camera.

When you look at it later, you’re shocked to see your own face like that; lips red, cheeks flushed, hair a little messy. You’re not looking directly into the camera, you’re looking sideways at all the blue and you look—you don’t really know, different, maybe. More open. More like a real person.

You text the picture first to Amy, and then to Annabelle, both of them captured _girl stuck in an ice cave._

Annabelle texts back _a cold hearted bitch right at home._

It makes you laugh so hard. But before you can type a response, Amy’s message comes through. 

It’s just a word.

Just one word.

_Fuck_.

It makes you shiver all over.

You bite your lip, type back _look at you swearing._

It takes a moment, almost like Amy doesn’t really know how to reply to that. But then the message comes through.

_Who knew ice caves could be that hot._

You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling like a goddamn idiot. It’s such a _lame_ response. Such an Amy thing to say.

You text her back _they’d be hotter if you were here_.

And that’s so fucking _lame_ as well—honestly, what is happening to you?

(You don’t care, though. You just can’t stop smiling.)

:::

After Iceland, there is Amsterdam, which means you send about thirty pictures of pride flags to Annabelle, just to annoy her, and then one of two to Amy, just because.

Somehow, even though you didn’t really mean anything with it, it starts something, though.

You’re having coffee at this cute little café on your third or fourth morning, and you call her, just to see if she’ll pick up.

(Because you were bored for a moment, because you were thinking about her, because—just because.)

She picks up on the second ring.

“ _Hey_.”

“Hi.”

You manage to get through the first few minutes of awkwardness. You’ve spoken a few times on the phone already, but still, each time, it seems to catch both of you off guard, so the first few minutes are slow. But then you tell Amy about the Van Gogh museum and both of you relax a little bit.

She asks you what you will be doing this weekend and you say, “I don’t know. There seems to be a thing here on Saturday. Some sort of pride parade on the canals, I guess?”

Amy goes quiet for a moment, then she says, “ _And you’d—_ ” She coughs. “ _You would go to that?_ ”

It makes you frown a bit. “Well, yeah, I’m here anyway and it looks fun.”

“ _And…_ ” Her voice has gone weirdly tense. “ _Would that interest be just… well, just for fun? Or maybe like – like, an act of… support, you know, for the— Or is it because you’re… Because you—_ ” She coughs again.

Suddenly, it clicks.

“Yes?” you tease, playing dumb.

_“Well, I’m just wondering, if your interest in pride is… is maybe a reflection of…_ ” She stumbles again, then adds in a rush, “ _Not that it really matters. You don’t owe anyone any sort explanation, of course. And especially not to me — I mean, what do I know. I was just — well, I guess I was just curious and—”_

“Amy.”

“— _You are your own person and you’re allowed to exist outside of any sort of societal constructions, especially when it comes to sexuality—”_

“Amy.” You laugh. “Stop.”

She falls silent.

You press the phone a little closer to your ear. “Are you asking me if I like girls?”

She takes a sharp inhale. “ _I—_ ”

“I thought it was pretty obvious,” you say.

That stops her rambling.

“I thought…” you add slowly. “That you, of all people, would know exactly how much I’m into girls.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes out. “ _Good. That’s— sorry, that was stupid. I just…_ ” She seems to gather herself and then rushes out, almost like she doesn’t want to admit it, “ _You know, sometimes, I get scared that this is all some sort of joke. And then I don’t know if you’re really into me or if you’re just— if all of this, the pictures and the texts and the calling, if maybe it’s just an experiment to you._ ” There’s a sort of tremble in her voice. “ _And even if it was, that would be… Well, then, at least I’d know. Even if, for me, well—”_

“Hey,” you say, feeling the rush of emotion so harshly that it nearly knocks you back into your chair, because it seems like this is a genuine insecurity of hers, and it’s just so… so… “I like you, okay?”

You’ve said it before you can stop yourself.

Amy is quiet. You can hear her breathing—fast and a little shaky, and you’re swearing at yourself, because _oh my god who even says that out of nowhere—_

But then Amy says, “ _I like you, too_.”

It rushes through your whole body. “Yeah?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” she says. “ _I’d kill to go to a pride parade with you.”_ She seems to realize what she’s said, because she quickly adds, “ _Well, not actually, obviously. That would be unethical._ ”

You burst out laughing. “You’re an idiot.”

It’s like you can see Amy grin. “ _But you like me, anyway_.”

You laugh harder. “Unfortunately.”

She makes a happy noise and then, she says, “ _So, just to be clear_ —”

“Yes, I’m into girls, Amy.” You close your eyes. “You’re acting like you don’t remember eighth grade when I insisted relentlessly on being cast as Danny in the summer school rendition of _Grease_ just because Suzanna Boyton got to play Sandy.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Oh my god, that was _you_? Molly and always wondered which girl was hiding under all that leather!”

She laughs so hard that you nearly hang up on her.

(You would have. You totally would have hung up on her. If you weren’t so fucking into her, you totally would have.)

:::

You spend weeks and weeks and weeks going from one place to the next.

Sometimes you’re in one place a little longer. Sometimes you only stay a day. You hitchhike and you take planes and you take 25-hour long bus rides. And like an exploration, from one place to the next, you begin to figure out all of these little things that you like—just because _you_ like them, and not because anyone else told you to.

Black coffee with whipped cream. The good-as-new pair of Blundstones you thrifted from a store in Krakow. Sitting on the floor in art galleries. Postcards and silver bracelets and going to parks early in the morning just to watch the dogs play. You don’t like meditation, but you like to quiet your thoughts by getting lost in random Wikipedia articles. You let some girl at some small hairdresser’s in Vienna cut 4 inches off your hair because she tells you you’ll look good like that. You hate it immediately. Then, she takes you to get a helix piercing in your left ear, and you somehow end up loving your haircut after all.

The girl—Sacha— winks at you, and tells you to come back to Vienna when you’re twenty-two or something, and it makes you blush but also feel cool and confident and a little reckless. 

You learn how to play the harmonica from an Australian guy in your hostel, and it’s so _nerdy_ that you brush it off to Amy as some sort of joke, but she demands you play her something over the phone, and when you do, she applauds you and laughs and tells you that maybe you can join band now—and it turns out that it’s actually really, really great to find something lame to love, because who the fuck cares? You make your own rules about what’s cool. And so, you play her a shaky version of _Can’t Help Falling in Love_ and she laughs but also goes a bit quiet, and you tease her about it for almost half an hour.

Some days you don’t really do anything. You just lie in bed and flip through your photos, or you lazily thumb through magazines in foreign languages, or you close your eyes and let your thoughts wander, until you feel your skin heat up and you have to slip your hand between your legs to take the tension out of your body.

All of this is part of figuring it out. 

Trying to see what makes you want to stay somewhere and what makes you want to go. Trying to unlearn what you have learnt growing up about the way your life should be. 

You’re eighteen, and you go to shitty band performances and flirt with bartenders that are older, just for fun, and you get butterflies in your stomach every single time Amy’s name lights up on your phone.

:::

There’s one girl that you kiss.

You end up on Sicily, all fishing boats and pretty houses and _sea sea sea_. During the day, you wander around old villages, read borrowed paperbacks on the beach. At night, you find a bar where they will serve you limoncello, and you listen to the waves crash onto the coast.

You’re on your fourth one, hanging out with a group of French archaeology students who are here on a study trip. The guys are slightly too pushy and the girls not nearly as funny as you’d hoped, but they like dancing and it’s good company for now.

You haven’t figured out where to go from here, so you’ll take what you can get.

When you make your way outside to get some fresh air, you find your phone in the back pocket of your jeans and hover your thumb over Amy’s contact for a second.

You could call her.

You’re a little tipsy and it’s the middle of the night, but theoretically, if you wanted to, you _could_ call her.

“ _Hai un accendino_?”

You turn around. There’s a girl standing a few feet away from you. Long dark hair, tan legs, one hand on her hip, holding out a cigarette to you.

“Sorry,” you say. “I don’t speak Italian.”

“Oh.” She smiles. “I was asking if you have a lighter.”

You do, actually. You haven’t smoked in weeks, but you like the weight of your lighter in the pocket of your jacket, like to twist it between your fingers sometimes. You take it out and flick it open.

The girl leans close, lets you light it, makes eye contact in a way that makes your throat go dry.

“What’s your name?” she says then, her accent thick but her English good.

“Hope,” you tell her. “What’s yours?”

She smiles. “Chiara.”

You like the way she rolls her ‘r’s, like the way she leans back against the wall, takes a drag from her cigarette and looks you up and down. “What brings you here?” she says.

“I like to take photos,” you say, which is the truth. “I’m travelling around.”

She kinks her eyebrow at you. “Photography? Tell me more.”

You do.

You talk and you flirt and when she kisses you, you kiss her back, because she’s making your body feel light and good, and why not? She presses you back against the wall, her fingers under your shirt, and it’s making you breathless. 

She takes you back to her apartment, all hot kisses and wandering hands. She’s got your shirt on the floor in seconds, is pushing you on her bed and unhooking your bra, making quick work of kissing down your neck, and _god,_ she’s clearly done this before, she’s clearly—

Amy’s face flashes in front of your face and you tense up.

Chiara breaks away. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you breathe out.

She kisses down your collarbones, licks at your nipple, and—

It’s nothing like Amy’s nervous, shaking hands, nothing like the awkward way she pressed her body against yours, nothing like how Amy made your heart race, looking at you lying in front of her on a cold bathroom floor, all open and exposed and—

Chiara slows down.

She looks up at you through dark eyelashes.

“Hey,” she says. “We can stop if you want.”

And that is _way_ too familiar.

(Except last time, you were the one saying those words, and Amy’s eyes had gone wide and she’d said _we are not stopping_ with so much emotion that you’d nearly exploded right out of your skin, feeling such a shock of pride at the fact that you had been be the one who could make her say something like that.)

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I’m a little distracted.”

“I can tell.” Chiara smiles softly at you. “Who is she?” 

You’re still catching your breath. “W-what?”

“The girl,” Chiara says, moving away from your body, giving you space. “The girl your thinking about—is she your girlfriend? An ex, maybe?” You’re speechless, so she adds, “Come on, we’ve all got a girl like that. Someone who is on our mind whether we want it or not.”

You exhale hard, pushing your hair out of your eyes. “She’s—she’s just a girl from home.”

(Except, maybe, she’s not. Not _just_ a girl from home.)

Chiara lies down on her side, then interlaces her fingers with yours and says, for the second time this evening, “Tell me more.”

:::

“You should go to Cape Town.”

“What?”

“Cape Town,” Chiara says, staring up at the ceiling. “You’d love it there. It’s got your vibe—all sharp and real and alive. Besides, it would only be a two hour flight to Gaborone.”

You can feel your heart speed up. “You mean—”

“You fly to her. She flies to you.” Chiara shrugs. “I don’t really care about the details. I just think that if she’s got you this worked up from like a thousand miles away, you should probably do something about that.”

It’s a little overwhelming to fully entertain the idea yet. But, maybe…

“I don’t know,” you whisper into the dark of her bedroom. “It was not supposed to be about a girl.”

Chiara nods. “I get that. But has it been about her? So far?”

You think about it. You think about waking up early in Cologne to go run along the Rhine. You think about the museums you’ve seen—all those hours spent in your own head, looking and feeling and shooting pictures. You think about all the film you’ve used so far to capture what _you_ wanted to capture.

(You think about the person you were months ago; scared of your parents and annoyed with yourself; you think about your attitude, the whole _if you want to think I’m a bitch, I’ll be a bitch_ filter that you used to protect yourself; you think about how soft Amy makes your heart feel and how you don’t exactly hate it anymore.) 

“I’m just saying,” Chiara says, breaking through your thoughts. “If you want to see a place, you go see a place. If you want to see a girl, you go see a girl. It’s not that hard.”

She interlaces your fingers, presses a kiss against them.

Says, “She should get to see you like this, I think.”

:::

You text Amy _have you ever wanted to go to cape town?_

It’s a long shot—but it’s something.

You fumble with your phone in your hands, waiting, waiting. You try to read your book but you can’t concentrate on the words. Your eyes keep going back to the screen.

It takes almost an hour — she’s probably busy saving women’s lives, or something — but then your phone buzzes with her answer. 

_Are you asking me out?_

You smile so hard and then nearly knock your coffee over in your rush to type back.

It’s cheesy as fuck, and yet, you can’t be bothered to try and sound any cooler when you type back, _if you want to, it’s a date._

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: These two are idiots. Next up: Cape Town aka one of my favorite places in the world. Let me know what you think in the comments.


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> I was in Cape Town two months ago, so writing this was like writing a love letter. 
> 
> This is where I up the rating of this fic, so make from that what you will haha.

You’re so nervous that you can barely breathe.

Annabelle texts you _she there yet?_ , followed by, _of course you’re like a million years early_ , and then, _I knew this was going to happen_ _your gay heart never really stood a chance against Amy’s birkenstocks and boring haircut_.

You sigh hard, shoot her back, _hope you’re enjoying molly’s incessant ranting about the her sex life with jared._

It’s not your best comeback—Annabelle and Molly actually seem to have become quite close at Yale—but damn it, you’re nervous okay.

You glance down at your watch, then up through the crowds at the sliding doors under the sign that says Arrivals. According to the screens, her plane landed about 15 minutes ago which means that between now and the next thirty minutes or so, you could be seeing her, depending on how fast she manages to get through security.

You’re going to be seeing her. For the first time in months. For the first time, actually, in basically _ever,_ because despite the fact that you went to school together, you’ve never done this before. You’ve never hung out. The only thing that you and Amy _really_ have between the two of you, if you’re honest, is an awkward attempt at a hook up, and a few months of sending selfies to each other. That’s it.

And now you’re here—with slightly sweaty palms, in the arrival hall at Cape Town International Airport, waiting for her to come through the doors.

It’s a bad idea.

It’s one of your worst, actually.

Your phone buzzes and for one ice cold second your mind shoots into overdrive and you think it must be her.

(You think it must be Amy, telling you she decided not to come to Cape Town after all, telling you that she’s changed her mind, that she _does_ think you already peaked in high school, and that there’s nothing about you that she’s into anymore, that she doesn’t care that you’re on the other side of the world for her and—)

It’s an unknown number.

You frown.

The message reads, _Have fun in Cape Town. I hope you have a great time. However, if I find out that you made Amy feel bad for as much as a second, I can assure you that your little ‘cool’-girl-aesthetically-induced life will come to an untimely end, do you understand?_

It’s a weirdly well-formulated direct threat to your life. You stare at your phone, completely shocked.

Then a second message comes through.

_This is Molly, by the way._

No shit.

Your heart is pounding. As if it wasn’t bad enough that you are already trembling with nerves from the fact that you’re practically going on holiday with a girl you’ve never as much as went out for ice cream with, now you also have to deal with her best friend threatening your life.

With stupid shaking hands, you try to type a response back, try to figure out a way to tell Molly that of course you’re not—

That you’ve had a crush on Amy for, like, _months_ , and that, really, you’d never—

“Should I be jealous?”

Your breath catches in your throat.

She’s standing about six feet away, dressed in denim shorts and a black t-shirt that actually looks _really fucking good_ , and, and— Birkenstocks, of course. 

You feel like you can’t breathe.

“Hi,” you choke out.

“Hey,” she says, and she’s _here_ , _she’s_ _here._

She’s got her backpack on the ground, and she’s smiling in this cute, semi-confident way, like she’s playing at not really caring what you think about her, even though you know that, actually, she does—and you can tell, because she’s fumbling a little bit with her fingers, putting her thumb through the loop of her shorts, and her eyes keep flicking up to meet yours, and then, looking away again, and you’re just—

You’re staring.

You missed her. 

“I’m just saying,” Amy rambles, trying to continue the joke when you still haven’t managed to give any sort of real response yet, “Because you were looking at your phone, all distracted, and I thought—”

You step forward, hesitate for one more awkward second, and then wrap your arms around her waist and pull her close.

“I was texting Molly,” you say, into her shoulder, somehow the first complete sentence you manage to get out of your mouth.

She smells of sunscreen and eucalyptus shampoo and something that is uniquely her, something that makes your whole body heat up and think about the last time you were this close to her.

“Molly?” Amy says, confused. “ _My_ Molly?” 

You pull back, smile and smile and smile.

“Doesn’t matter,” you mumble. “I—welcome to Cape Town.”

Amy bites down on her lip, and now you’re staring at her lips, but you force yourself to calm down, force yourself to grab her backpack off the floor and swing it over your shoulder.

Your phone buzzes again in the pocket of your jeans and it’s probably Annabelle—or Molly again—but you ignore it.

You’re not going to text anyone back for a while.

:::

So far, you’ve been pretty good with money. You’ve hitchhiked a lot, stayed in hostels mostly, cooked your own meals whenever you could. Just because you _have_ money, doesn’t mean you want to spend like crazy.

But _this_ is something else.

This is you and Amy now—and whatever, okay, yes, maybe you want to impress her just a little bit.

When you were booking your flight, you told her she didn’t have to worry about accommodation, that you’d already had an Airbnb reserved, and that she could just stay with you.

And all of that was true.

What you didn’t tell her was that you did some research, then booked a Llandudno beach apartment with an open view of the Atlantic Ocean.

“You’re out of your mind,” she says, pushing the sliding doors open. “This is crazy.”

It’s not _that_ crazy. It’s still a relatively small apartment, high up on the hill. It’s got a bit of a loft feeling to it, because the space is wide and there’s an open kitchen and a king-size bed in the corner of the living room, a balcony stretched out in front. And okay, maybe it’s a little crazy. But you arrived last week already and Cape Town is absolutely amazing, and you’re just—

You’re buzzing with energy.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s go down to the beach.”

:::

You end up on the rocks at Llandudno beach with a bottle of wine between you, ready to watch the sunset. Amy’s got her hair tied back, which makes you shy every time you glance over at her. You’ve changed your jeans for these black, leather shorts that are maybe a bit much for the beach, but anyway, they show off your legs, so.

Most of the initial awkwardness is gone.

You talk easily now, just like you do when you’re on the phone, except now you actually get to look at her while she speaks.

She updates you on everything Botswana. You tell her everything that happened in Sicily.

(Except for the part where you weren’t able to sleep with someone else because you could not stop thinking about _her_.) 

Amy sips red wine straight from the bottle, and that is a sight that makes you bite your lip, and you kind of want to tell her she looks pretty, but instead, you hear yourself say, “Remember physics with Mr. Henderson in freshman year?”

She looks over at you, small smile around her lips. “Yeah, why?”

“I’m thinking about the global ocean conveyor belt.”

Amy’s smile gets wider. “You’re thinking about what?”

“The global ocean conveyor belt,” you repeat. “You know—one of the coolest things we were ever told in school.” You grin. “But okay, whatever. Clearly you weren’t paying attention to Mr. Henderson. Probably fantasizing about Ms. Fine instead…”

Amy shoves your shoulder, and your whole body feels light.

She rolls her eyes. “Just because you’re so much _cooler_ than the rest of us and remember random science facts from Mr. Henderson’s class—”

“Oh, you think I’m cool?”

She shoves you again and this time her hand kind of lingers on your arm. You glance down at it, want to reach out and interlace your fingers with hers, but before you can do it, Amy blushes and pulls her hand back.

You smile softly. “Anyway, the global ocean conveyor belt is the deep-ocean circulation that covers the whole world. It’s driven by temperature and salinity.” Amy’s eyebrows raise a fraction, but she doesn’t say anything. “Basically… in the polar region, close to Norway—” You put your finger down on the rock, drawing an imaginative cross where you imagine Norway to be. “—the water from the oceans cools down significantly, creating sea ice. The water becomes saltier and denser, and then sinks to the bottom, creating new space for surface water to become cold and salty enough to sink. See, like a cycle.” You draw the circle. “This cold and salty water then flows past the coast of the Americas, it mixes with water from Antarctica, then flows out into the Indian and the Pacific Oceans—” You draw the lines on your imaginative world map. “And then, when it meets the warmer water again, it heats up, finds it way back into the Atlantic, past the African continent, north towards the polar region, where it cools down and sinks again, and the whole cycle begins all over.”

Amy is looking at you with something soft and appreciative in her eyes. She smiles, but still says, half daringly, “And this is cool because…?”

You dangle your leg over the edge of the rock and dip your toe in the water. “Takes about a 1000 years before the same water is back at the place where it once was. So, who knows where these waves have been.”

You sweep your feet up, trying to splash her and Amy _squeaks_ and this time actually grabs your arm, trying to get you to stop. And you interlace your fingers with hers this time, and she’s laughing, says, “God, you’re so nerdy.”

It doesn’t sound like an insult at all.

You shrug. “Just telling you the truths about the world, babe.”

And then, _fuck_ —

Amy’s inhale is sharp, just as you realize what you said, and her eyes are darker now, and she’s looking at your mouth, and you really didn’t mean to call her _babe_ , it just happened, just slipped from your lips, but—

She kisses you.

For half a moment, it registers in the back of your mind that this is the second time that she’s the one to make the first move, but then you can no longer form any coherent thoughts, because she’s _kissing_ you.

She tastes of red wine and salt.

It’s quick, and before you can fully respond, she pulls away again, unsure and backtracking, like maybe she was acting on impulse and is now coming to her senses, but you _missed_ her, and you _want_ her, and God—

You touch the back of her neck and pull her in, and then you kiss her properly, like you’ve wanted to do since the moment you saw her at the airport.

(And you had this whole plan about taking it slow, about not kissing her on the first day, and, you know, maybe just _talk_ first. But you’re also eighteen and hormonal, and it feels like everything has been building between you for weeks. And with the way Amy is shifting forward and closer to you, you’re thinking that maybe she has wanted it at least as much as you have.) 

The wine has made you a little tipsy, but kissing Amy makes you feel full-on _drunk_.

All you can register is the heat of her mouth on yours, her hand brushing softly over your thigh, the little whimpers that she makes into your mouth when you stroke your hand over her jaw. It goes on for long minutes—this needy push and pull that has your whole body feeling tight and good all over.

And then, Amy slides her hand a little higher up your thigh, and—

You jerk back.

Her eyes are instantly worried. “Was that… not… not good?”

Your breathing is uneven. “No, that was…” You’re trying to be cool, but you’re shaking. “That was _really_ good, actually, and I’m just— _argh_ , I—” You’re stumbling. “Amy, I had this whole plan…”

At that, a slow smile re-appears on her face. “A whole plan?”

“Yes.” You sigh. “About not – not going too fast… and being in control. And then you go ahead and just make me feel all…”

Amy blushes hard.

You stare at each other for a few long heated moments, not saying anything. Her face is framed by loose strands of her hair that have fallen from her bun and her lips are red and slightly swollen. She looks like she did on that bathroom floor at Nick’s aunt’s house—pretty and nervous. Like she’d look perfect through the lens of your camera.

(Pretty perfect without the camera, too.)

You lace your fingers through hers and then pull her up.

:::

Amy seems to think that the door of your Airbnb is the perfect place to push you up against. She’s got her hands on your hips, kissing you like it’s oxygen. You feel like you’re losing your mind. Feel like you’re trembling, ready to do whatever she wants. 

So much for taking it slow.

“Amy—” you breathe out against her lips. “The door—”

She lets out this soft, involuntary noise of frustration that settles somewhere low in your stomach, and then she steps away, allowing you to get to the lock.

(Allowing you to catch your breath, get back some of your composure and tell yourself to get it _together_ , because she’s completely unraveling you and you’re not… you’re not this _soft_ …)

The second the door opens, you decide to prove that point and flip the scene, trapping her against the wall and kissing her hungrily, barely giving Amy a moment to kick her shoes off. Still, the sound she makes against your lips when your fingers skim under the hem of her shirt, nearly makes you stumble.

She’s all heavy-breathing and wandering hands and still not really confident—but damn it, even the slight uncertainty is driving you crazy.

You slow it down a little, nipping at her bottom lip, stroking your thumb over her hip, just above the waistband of her shorts, and Amy sort of bucks forward.

_Oh_.

That makes you feel a little shy.

You pull back for a second, finding her eyes. “Is this…” Wow, you sound breathless. “Is this okay?”

She nods. “ _Yes_.”

You fumble a little with the fabric of her shorts. “Um, do you want me to… to…”

Instead of responding, Amy slides her hand between your bodies and undoes the zipper for you. Your throat goes dry. She runs her fingers through her hair, looks a little unsure for a moment, but then she gives you this slightly cocky smile and slides her shorts down her legs, keeping her eyes on your face the whole time.

You swallow hard. And then, Amy is pulling on the front of your shirt and kissing you again, a little clumsily, but with so much heat. You kiss her back, opening your mouth under hers, and trapping her a little closer to the wall.

Your fingers are still touching her hip, now brushing against the fabric of her panties.

And then Amy’s breathing out, “Take them off— _just_ , Hope, just take them off _—_ ”

Fuck.

There’s a kind of neediness in her voice that drops directly between your legs. You kiss your way down her throat, sliding your fingers to her thigh just to feel her breathing hitch against your lips, and then you’re dropping to your knees, dropping to your knees in the still-dark hallway of some beach apartment in Cape Town, dropping to your knees because Amy is asking you to and you’re—you’re so turned on that you can barely speak. 

She’s all soft skin and freckles, and she’s wearing this simple pair of black panties, no lace or anything.

You’re staring, and before you can say anything, Amy rushes out, “Yeah, sorry, I know they’re not really sexy— I— well, it’s practicalities first in Botswana, and I didn’t really think that I would… well, you know… do _this_ —”

She’s rambling, all nervous and shaky now that you’re suddenly on your knees in front of her and you can’t help but drop a kiss to her leg, because she’s _so_ attractive, and she doesn’t even know it.

“—and you’ve probably got all these girls you’ve been with who all have really sexy underwear, so I’m sorry if it’s a little disappointing, or—”

You kiss her leg, hot and wet, licking at her skin and trying to get her stop talking already. And it works, because she actually moans and falls back against the wall, and you’re doing it again, and again, slowly pushing her legs open a little wider, even though you didn’t—

Well, you were going to take it slow.

(But she’s just so… so…)

“You’re _so_ sexy,” you say, and you look up at her because she needs to see how much you mean it. You pull a little at her underwear. “And you’ve got no idea how much these are driving me crazy right now.” 

Amy takes a long, slow inhale.

“Yeah?” she whispers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She bites down on her lip, gets this look in her eyes that could very well kill you. Especially when she adds, with a little arch of her brow, “Well, I thought I told you to take them off.”

You can feel yourself blushing. “Yeah, I was just about to— yeah, okay.”

Amy’s lips curl in a smile and she does this little thing where she pushes her hips forward almost teasingly, and it’s making you want to do _a lot_ of things that would be the complete opposite of taking it slow.

You bring your fingers up, hooking them in the fabric of her panties and sliding them slowly down her legs.

She looks beautiful.

You look for longer than you probably should, before kissing her thigh again. This time she kind of shifts, canting her hips forward in a way you’re not sure is entirely intentional, but it… it makes you want to…

“Can I—” Your voice cracks, and you have to try again. “I really want to…” You don’t know why you’re so nervous, but you struggle to get the words out. “… use my mouth.”

Amy’s entire body shudders, and you haven’t even touched her yet.

“Yes,” she says. “That’s, yes, that’s okay.”

You lick over her thigh, still not entirely sure, needing just a tiny bit more reassurance. “Yeah? Do you want me to?”

Amy’s got her hand against your jaw, stroking her fingers over your skin, and sort of, pulling slightly, doesn’t even seem to fully realize she’s doing it, as she rushes out, “Hope, consent is really important and everything, but I— I can barely speak with your lips right there, and— _yes,_ yes, I want you to. I— please, just. Yes, I’m saying yes.” 

You’re eighteen years old, and you’ve got the girl you like up against the wall, and you’re about to go down to her, on the other side of the world, while the sun is setting, and it’s just…

(It’s pretty perfect.)

You shift forward on your knees, urging Amy to keep her hand right where it is, on your jaw, sliding to the back of your neck now, and then you lick this slow path up between her legs, feeling the way she trembles as you put your mouth on her.

She’s biting back a noise, and you slowly, slowly, lick through her, trying not to swear against her, but struggling because _fuck,_ she tastes so good. You open your mouth a bit more, and Amy’s hips move down.

She whispers, “Oh my god _…_ ”

And that really does it.

You swipe your tongue through her and up, circling her clit, before sucking it into your mouth—

“Oh _Jesus—_ ” There’s a loud _bang_ as Amy’s head tilts back with the force of her pleasure, hitting hard against the wall, and then she chokes out, “Fuck!”

You quickly move back, struggling to get to your feet. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

Amy’s rubbing the back of her head with a pained expression, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, and then she groans and says, “Why does stupid stuff like this keep happening?”

You’re laughing before you can stop yourself.

Amy pushes against your arms. “It’s not funny… I’m dizzy.” 

That makes you laugh even harder, but also run your fingers over her cheek, protectively.

“Oh, baby,” you whisper, this time not even caring about letting the word slip. “Are you okay?”

Amy groans again. “Let’s see, I’m really turned on and my head hurts like a bitch and I just made a total fool of myself because apparently I can’t handle a little bit of oral, so what do you think?”

You’re biting back your laughing, and then you wiggle your eyebrows. “That good, huh?”

She pushes you again, but this time she’s smiling. “Shut up.”

You arch your eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes, but kisses you, anyway. It’s hot for all of three seconds, before Amy breaks away and says, a little more seriously, “I’m actually still dizzy… and not in the good way.”

“Come on,” you say. You grab her hand and pull her after you, to the bed. “Sit down, I’m going to get you some water.”

You fill up the glass of water, and when you turn around, Amy’s got her panties pulled back up and is sitting on the edge of the bed. You kick your shoes off—which, somehow, you were still wearing—and then sit down next to her. You make her slowly drink the entire glass of water.

“Who would have thought,” you say, with a grin. “That you’d get a concussion on your first night here.”

“It’s not a concussion,” she mutters. “I just need a second. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Hm,” you say, kind of teasingly. “Seems that’s what my _little bit of oral_ did to you, though.”

At that, Amy laughs. “I hate you.”

You lean forward and kiss her lips, revel in the fact that it feels like this is just something that you can do now—kiss her whenever you want to.

“Who would have thought…” you say then, a little more slowly, closer to her mouth. “That we’d be doing any of _that_ in the first place.”

Amy presses another kiss to your mouth, mumbles, “I’d been thinking about it.”

Your heartbeat sort of stutters. “Really?”

She hums. “Yes.”

“In Botswana?”

“Where else?”

“You mean…” You can feel yourself blushing. Amy seems to take a lot of pride in that, judging from the way she is looking at you. “You mean, you’d— when you were in Botswana, you would think about… and then you’d, you’d…”

Amy pulls teasingly on the hem of your shirt. “So articulate.”

She leaves you sitting there, kind of dumbstruck and still processing, for another moment, and then she gets up, pulls her shirt over her head like it’s nothing, and says, “I’m going to take a shower.”

She’s in her panties and her bra, grinning at you from over her shoulder as she disappears into the bathroom, leaving you a blushing mess.

She only got here this very morning.

You don’t think you’re ready for this trip at all.

:::

In the end, you order pizza and curl up on the bed in sleep shorts and t-shirts, and you show Amy postcards from all the cities you’ve been in, and you watch half of a movie on tv before Amy drifts off to sleep, and you just lie on your back on the bed next to her, and breathe in and out, feeling happy in a sort of easy and effortless way.

:::

It’s still early when you wake up, but Amy is somehow making breakfast. She’s cutting fruit in little pieces, and you can smell coffee, and you lie with your face in the pillow, thinking of all the kissing you did yesterday, and trying to hide your smile.

“Should you be doing that with your concussion?” you finally joke as you roll over onto your back.

She flips you off and says, “Okay, no coffee for you.”

But then she is climbing back in the bed and popping a strawberry in your mouth, kissing your lips kind of awkwardly and quick, before rushing back to the kitchen, almost as if she doesn’t know whether this is something you do now. Just kiss like this.

It’s so cute that it makes your heart ache.

“So,” you say, sitting up. “What do you want to do today?”

:::

You rent a car, that’s what you do.

There’s no way to get around without a car and despite Amy’s protests—“They drive on the other side of the road, Hope!”—you’re a confident enough driver to pull it off. Sure, it takes a little bit of getting used to, but you’ve always loved driving around, and this is the perfect place to do it. All the steep cliff roads, the mountain passes. The sun is out and it’s a great day already.

You stack up on water and snacks, make your way through Hout Bay and then onto Chapman’s Peak Drive.

You’ve read about Chapman’s—about the winding road, the ocean views, the steep cliffs that you can fall right off if you’re not careful enough—but seeing it for real is so much better than looking at tumblr pictures. 

There are view points at the edges of every single bay that you pass, and there is nothing more fun than watching Amy’s face as she gets out of the car and looks at the curves of the land, the mountains rising up, the ocean stretched out in front of her.

You get out your camera, quickly shoot a couple of pictures before she can stop you.

When she notices, she blushes hard. “Stop that, I’m not photogenic.”

“Hm…” You narrow your eyes. “Maybe let the photographer decide that.” She throws up a lazy peace sign to piss you off, and you burst out laughing. “Oh yeah, just like that.”

You let her take a couple of silly poses, enough to watch some of the tension release from her shoulders. Then, you take a step closer. In the brightness of the light, her eyes are hazel; the greenish specks brighter than usual. She’s got her hair down, long and wavy. Freckles all over the bridge of her nose. She’s wearing a red polo shirt that’s buttoned all the way up, and of course those freaking Birkenstocks, but oh my god.

“Look at me,” you say, already pointing the camera.

She runs a hand through her hair, flicks her eyes up and you nearly drop your camera, because _fuck, okay_.

You asked for it.

Still, it makes you a little breathless to be able to capture it.

Then, she holds out her hand. “My turn.”

“Uh, no.”

Amy gives you a look. “Come on. It’s only fair.” 

You sigh hard, before handing your camera over with a lot of reluctancy. “Okay, but be careful, because some of the settings are a little bit different than on most cameras and you really need to—”

She shushes you and you fall silent, running your hand a little self-consciously over the back of your neck and then taking your sunglasses from the collar of your shirt.

“Oh, no,” Amy says, stepping closer. “No hiding. Want to see your eyes.”

She takes your sunglasses and places them right back, her fingers briefly skimming the skin of your throat in the process. You swallow hard, and Amy grins. “This is so typical.”

“What?” you mumble.

“Nothing,” she says, grinning even wider.

You let out a little noise of frustration. “Fine, whatever. Take your basic hot girl peaking in high school pictures, please. Then we can go.”

Amy’s eyebrow arches up, but she doesn’t respond.

Instead, she steps forward, camera around her neck, and before you can do anything, she leans into you and kisses you.

You’re too surprised to really move, and then Amy’s already moving back, pointing the camera. And you can still feel the heat of her mouth on yours and you think you’re smiling and maybe blushing just a little bit, and then she takes the picture.

:::

“Why didn’t you ever really talk to us in school?”

You’re back on the road, driving down to Cape Point, past Misty Cliffs and Scarborough, right into the national park.

You frown. “I did.”

“Well, sure, but…” Amy hesitates, “Only ever small things. Or school related things. Like, if you disagreed with something Molly said during English class.”

“Molly said a lot of outrageous things in English class.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point.” Amy is looking over at you. “I’m just saying—I thought, I don’t know, I thought you believed you were too good to talk to us or something.”

Your inhale is a little sharp. “It wasn’t like that.”

She turns a bit in her seat. “Well, what was it, then?”

You fall silent for a moment. You don’t like talking about things like this. Don’t like talking about school, because the truth is that, for the most part, school was just a bunch of disappointing people calling you a bitch on a weekly basis.

But Amy’s asking.

(And she’s asking like she doesn’t really want to, either, like maybe she is insecure about this, too, like maybe she is thinking that you didn’t talk to her in school because you didn’t _like_ her or something.)

“I just wanted to be alone,” you say, after a moment. “People—most people are so… Well, they just make up their mind about you right away, right? So they see brands of your clothes and they think _stuck up rich kid_. Or they know what kind of music you listen to and decide your social status based on that. And even my parents…” You hesitate, then decide against it. “Anyway, in school, I don’t know— if people are going to think you’re a bitch, you might as well _be_ a bitch.”

Amy takes it in, then she says, “What about your parents?”

Of course, you couldn’t get away with it. She’s too damn smart.

You inhale slowly. “They’ve also got all these ideas about who I should be. My own parents. And I feel like… Like, it’s just easier to be on your own.”

She nods, but then frowns a little. “That sounds lonely, though.”

“Hm,” you say, and then you admit, “Maybe it was, a little bit. In school. Sometimes. But now… I don’t know, the past few months I haven’t felt lonely at all. I’ve felt—” You take a breath, not knowing how exactly she’s getting you to talk about all of this. “I’ve felt a lot like me.”

There’s a small smile playing at Amy’s lips. She looks at your hand that’s resting on the shifter a for a fraction of a moment you think she’s going to reach out and grab your hand. But instead, she says, “You know, for the record, I never thought you were a bitch. Or _basic_ , for that matter.”

It clenches a little in your chest. “No?”

“No,” she says, silent for a moment before adding, “I did think you were hot, though.”

That makes you laugh, makes your whole body feel warm.

“I thought you were hot and cool and smart,” Amy says. “I always _wanted_ you to talk to me.”

Your smile curls wider. “Talking to you made me nervous.”

Now it’s Amy’s turn to smirk a little. “People have got no idea.”

“About what?”

“That you’re so soft.” She grins. “Shy on camera, nervous to talk to girls. They’ve got no fucking clue.”

You feel yourself blush. You take your hand off the shifter, reach out, and interlace your fingers with hers. 

:::

Cape Point is beautiful. You have to protect your snacks from the wild baboons, but you make it to the top of the lighthouse, and then the whole world is wide open in front of you. You climb down onto the actual rocks, and sit and talk and take more pictures. Then, you drive back the other way around, through Simon’s Town. You have dinner at this cute little place by the harbor. Your skin feels like it’s glowing, and maybe it’s the sunburn, but it’s mostly the way Amy’s looking at you. You can feel the tension building slowly as the evening gets later. You want to kiss her more and more, and so, the second that you’re home in your apartment, you do.

:::

You’ve got Amy’s shirt and pants on the floor, and she managed to get you out of your shorts, but now she’s shivering as you kiss your way down her neck, tugging on your shirt, trying to get it off but not managing, because your lips are slow and hot against her skin. 

You laugh a little when she shifts, tugging harder, and you can’t believe you’ve got her on her back, can’t believe that you’ve got all the—

“Did you think I was going to let you be in control?” you whisper, teasingly. 

Amy whines a little, then mumbles something incomprehensible.

“What was that?”

She wraps her arms around your neck and pulls your mouth to hers. Right before she kisses you, she whispers, “Want to see you naked.”

That makes your body shiver.

You kiss her hard, before moving down her neck again, and then, leaning back to straddle her hips properly so you can pull your shirt up over your head.

You love the way she just _stares_. You decide to drag one of your hands down from your neck until you’re cupping your own boob, and Amy makes a sort of strangled, choking sound at the sight.

Her hips shift upwards and against you, and you can feel your throat go dry, because you really, _really_ want to pick up where you left off yesterday. Can already feel how your underwear is sticky with how turned on you are.

But before you can do anything, Amy is moving upwards, leaning back against the headboard of the bed, and kissing you, fumbling with the clasp of your bra.

It takes a moment—

Then, a little bit longer—

And then Amy curses. “Fuck, my fingers are shaking— how do I—”

You giggle, feeling a rush of sudden nerves coursing through your body.

“Let me…” you mumble against her lips, all breath and heat between the two of you, as you reach behind your back and unhook your own bra easily.

For a moment, you wait. Then, you drop your bra on the floor, and suddenly you’re only wearing your panties, and Amy is looking.

It’s making you self-conscious.

Yes, you’ve had sex before, and yes, you know what you look like. But still, _still_. You’ve never done any of this with someone you actually liked. Someone whose opinion of your body actually mattered to you.

(And the truth is that you’ve got no idea what Amy likes, maybe she has a different taste in girls, maybe she actually prefers girls with more curves or girls with a more even skin or—)

(The truth is that you’re a little scared that maybe Amy only kissed you that one night at Nick’s aunt’s house, because no one else was available—)

But then Amy whispers _wow_ , and she sounds out of breath and kind of amazed. And she’s stroking your hair back and pressing a kiss to your collarbone that’s so sweet and soft that it makes your whole body tremble.

And she says, “Are you okay? You seem a little…”

You nod quickly, trying to brush it off as nothing.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine. Just—” God, your voice is all squeaky, and you know you’re making it awkward. You’re ruining it. You’re… “I’m just… I’m just suddenly thinking—did you really want to kiss me? At Nick’s? Was it because you… Or was it just because I… well, you know. Because I was there.”

You can see Amy swallow. She looks at you, and you know that whatever she’s going to say is the truth.

“I wanted to kiss Ryan,” she whispers, and your throat closes off with the sting of it. “But… but once, once we kissed, I…” She licks her lips, looks shy. “I haven’t thought about anyone else for _months_. It’s only you.”

That makes your heart race. 

You nod, and then you press your lips against hers again, shifting forward in her lap and making your whole skin heat up with how close you’re together. You can tell she doesn’t really know where to put her hands because she’s trying to keep them on your back, only to slowly drift higher, over your sides, and then quickly dropping them again, like she isn’t sure if she can do what she wants to do.

“You know,” you say against her lips. “I took that bra off because I want you to touch me.”

“Oh.” Amy lets out this breathy sort of laugh. “Of course. Yeah. Let me just… I was… I was getting to that.”

She shifts up a little, creating a bit more space between your bodies. You’re still straddling her hips, but now she’s _really_ looking. Then, she puts her fingers on your collarbone and slides them lower, down over your sternum, brushing the side of your boob.

You take a sharp inhale.

Amy’s face changes. There’s this brave sort of look in her eyes. She presses her mouth to your neck, and then drags her fingers down again, this time just barely brushing the tip of your nipple.

Your hips buck forward, and Amy smiles, and says, “You like that?”

There’s a low noise at the back of your throat.

Amy licks a little harder against your pulse, then whispers into your skin, “Want that again?”

_Fuck_.

You don’t know where the hell all of this low-whispered confidence is coming from, but it nearly makes you slump forward and moan against her shoulder. The only thing you can do is bite down hard on your bottom lip to stop yourself from doing it.

Amy can tell, though.

It’s like she knows exactly what effect she’s having on you, because she strokes her fingers over your skin again, this time actually running her thumb over your nipple.

You nearly scream when she says, half seduction, half amazement, “Now who’s in control…”

“ _Fuck_ ,” you rush out.

She’s looking at you with something in her eyes that is making your whole body tight, and you’re so—

You’re so—

She leans forward and licks at your nipple, and you actually moan this time.

(You think you might be a little bit in love with her.)

She presses her fingers into you hips, and before you can stop yourself you’re grinding down against her, trying to find some friction, trying to—

“What do you want?” she says into skin.

“Just…” She’s making it hard to speak. “I’m—”

She hums, kissing down your chest again. “Yes?”

“Please,” you choke out. “I’m — I just need — god, you’re making me so wet.”

The words slip past your lips before you can stop yourself and for a second, you tense. But Amy shudders against you—actually trembles—and then she is kissing you hard and rocking her hips up, almost involuntarily, making you moan into her mouth as she slides her hand down, and directly into your underwear. 

After that, everything sort of blurs. 

You’re wet against her fingers, and she’s a little shy at first, not really stroking you yet, just feeling. You press down into her hand, and you shouldn’t be so—

This shouldn’t turn you on so much. But it does. And then Amy slowly slides a finger inside of you, and you tremble with how _good_ it feels.

“Is that…” she begins to say, but you kiss her, shutting her up effectively and rocking your body down a little bit harder to tell her that _yes it’s good_.

She moves slowly, just sliding her finger through you, in and out, in and out, before slipping completely out and circling your clit, and _oh my god_ , that’s—

She shouldn’t be good at that, but somehow she is.

“I’m—” you choke out, “I think I’m—”

You’re embarrassed that you’re already so close, that she hasn’t even got your panties off, is fingering you while you’re in her lap instead of on your back, and you’re this close to coming, already.

“Two fingers, please,” you breathe out. “If you use two, I’ll—”

Amy slides two fingers inside of you, and you rock into it, hard and fast. She follows the movements of your hips, follows the rhythm, looks up into your yes and sort of clumsily swipes her thumb over your clit—

Your orgasm catches you off guard, that’s how quick the build-up is.

You go tense against her, all your muscles tight for a second, and then the release rushes through your body.

Amy’s eyes are wide.

“Are you…” she whispers. “Are you feeling good?”

You’re panting and shaking, and God she made you come in, like, _minutes_ —and usually you’d maybe be a little embarrassed about it, but she’s looking at you like you’re the sexiest girl in the whole world, and she’s asking you if you’re feeling good, and you don’t even have any space left in your body to like her more than you already do.

“ _So good_ ,” you pant, before kissing her hard.

You don’t want to go slow anymore.

Now you want everything.

You slide a little bit down her body, dragging your panties off so that you’re finally completely naked, and then you pull on her hips.

“Lie back,” you whisper.

Amy’s breathing is going faster now. She moves down the bed until she’s spread in front of you, all soft skin and red flushes, and you don’t even know where to start.

First, you take her bra off, kissing down her breasts, stroking your fingers over her nipples, running your hands over her stomach until she’s pushing her hips up.

You kiss her softly, then take her panties off.

“What would you like?” you say, lying down on your side next to her, hand on her hip.

All you want is for her to feel good.

“I don’t—” She closes her eyes. “I don’t really know. You pick.”

You smile softly, run your fingers over her skin, before interlacing your fingers with hers. “No, _you_ pick,” you whisper softly. “That’s the point, baby.”

She nods, a little nervous suddenly. Then, she locks her eyes into yours, and says, “I just want you close. Like this.”

You nod. “Okay. I can stay right here.” Then, you decide to be a little brave. “Do you want me to touch you?”

She swallows hard, eyes closed. “Yes.”

“With my fingers?” You run the tips of them over her stomach, watching the goosebumps appear. “With my mouth?”

Amy makes a choking sort of sound and then says, “Fingers.”

You nod, pressing your body a little closer to hers. First, you kiss her, all soft lips and slow tongue. You want her to _want_ this. Want her to take her time. You brush your fingers against her skin—over her sides, her hips, her thighs—and all the while you’re still kissing her, and she’s kissing you back, losing more and more of the tension in her body.

It’s not until she’s spreading her legs wider and wider, that you finally let your fingers slip between her legs.

She’s wet, but also a little tense, still. You can feel it in the way her muscles are all tight.

“Can I…” you start. “Can I use my mouth, too?”

You’re stroking slow circles over her clit, but she’s nodding, her hand already at the back of your head.

You kiss her once, twice, before moving down to the edge of the mattress and licking slowly up the inside of your thigh.

When you put your mouth on her, Amy moans, and the sound makes your entire chest burn.

Again, you go slow. Letting her set the pace. Testing out what she likes, what she doesn’t like. You lick over her clit, a little faster now, and Amy’s hips press harder against your mouth. She’s making all these soft and needy noises, and you think that maybe she’s getting closer—

But then her hand falls to your shoulder and she says, “Hope… Hope…”

You stop. “Are you okay?”

She nods. “Yes, yes, definitely… Just… I really— _come here._ ”

You smile softly, moving up her body again and kissing her quickly. She rambles a little against your lips. “Sorry, I— that was really good, like _really good_ , I just… I thought I was maybe going to, you know—and I just, I have never— not with anyone else. So maybe if you could just stay right here, and, and…”

You kiss her softly. “I’m right here.”

She sighs, relaxes again. Then, finds your fingers and bravely puts them back between her legs.

You focus on her body, on the way it tenses and relaxes with your movements, what makes her breath go uneven, what makes her skin heat up.

“Can I…”

She nods, is already spreading herself open. “Yes, yes.”

You slide inside of her, first one finger, then two, loving the way she responds to it. The way her whole body clenches, how she’s cursing under her breath.

Then, she drops her hand from where it was tangled in your hair and slides it down.

Your heart almost skips at the thought of her touching herself.

But—

She hesitates.

“Hey,” you say against her jaw. “I want you to feel good. I want you to make yourself feel good.”

“Yeah?” She’s never sounded this breathless before.

“Yes,” you say. “Please— God, just… god, you’re so beautiful.”

She whimpers a little, and then, she gives in, sliding her fingers down so she’s circling her clit, while you’re slowly sliding in and out of her. After that, it goes really, really fast. Amy’s fingers speed up a little, still somewhat unsure, as if she doesn’t really do this either, but then, out of nowhere, her rhythm sort of stutters, and she goes completely tight around your fingers—

You feel like you can’t breathe.

Her eyes shut tight and her back arches off the mattress, and then she’s saying your name, just _Hope Hope Hope_ , and you can’t do anything but watch and move your fingers and feel her break apart against your body.

After, you lie on your backs next to each other, naked and soft and shy, and you’re so far from home, on the other side of the world, and you just had sex with the girl you might be falling in love with, and you’re eighteen years old and you whole future feels wide open.

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> I wanted to write their first time properly—the way first times go, including the tension and the nerves and all the figuring it out. I think sometimes, reading fanfiction, we’re oversold on the idea that first times are absolutely perfect when in reality pretty much always they’re not exactly that. Not even for people who are more experienced. Each time you sleep with someone, the two of you have to figure it out together—and that can be a little awkward, and super fun, and a bit scary, and really good, and nerve-wrecking. All at the same time. And that is okay :)
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: 
> 
> I have a lot of feelings for Diana Silvers. Also, feminist mythology.
> 
> This is most likely going to be four parts in total. I have most of it written so updates should be fairly quick. 
> 
> Hope you all have a wonderful day, wherever you all in the world. 
> 
> —Blake


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